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“Phương Tâm: Magical Nights – Saigon Surf, Twist & Soul (1964-1966)” (Sublime Frequencies, 2021)

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This collection, which I hereby deem an instant Sublime Frequencies classic, is devoted entirely to the long-unheard and elusive discography of one of the most magnetic singers of Saigon’s “golden music” age. Part of the reason why Phương Tâm’s work has languished in undeserved semi-obscurity is grimly predictable, as most of her music was destroyed during Vietnam’s great purge of American-influenced culture in 1975, but Tâm also abruptly ended her singing career in her prime to pursue forbidden love instead (an acceptably cool reason, I feel). According to her daughter Hannah Hà , Phương Tâm remained something of a highly localized karaoke supernova in the years since her stardom days, but Hà did not discover how truly famous her mom actually was until late 2019.

One thing led to another and Hà found Mark Gergis after discovering his beloved Saigon Rock and Soul compilation. Gergis and a handful of like-minded crate-digging luminaries then set about tracking down as much of Phương Tâm’s rare and often mistakenly attributed oeuvre as they could find, much of which even Tâm herself had not heard since the recording sessions. While the journey to this album is undeniably a fascinating and heart-warming one, the best part is the songs themselves, as this album is a treasure trove of fun, soulful, and sexy genre-blurring gems from the golden age of swinging Saigon nightlife. Moreover, I was legitimately gobsmacked to learn that these songs were all recorded by the same person in such a brief span, as Tâm channels everything from Brenda Lee to Ella Fitzgerald to the kind of impossibly cool, sexy, and ahead-of-their-time numbers that feel like would-be highlights from Lux Interior and Poison Ivy’s oft-anthologized record collection.

Fittingly, the story of Phương Tâm’s rise to stardom is nearly as strange and improbable as the story of this compilation, as her passion for music was first ignited by the ambient sounds of the courtyard where she played with friends as a child (“from one particular house, all sorts of American music seeped into the courtyard”). Once Tâm was thusly “introduced to a new world beyond traditional Vietnamese music,” she proved to be a natural at assimilating the rapidly evolving cultural forces of the era (“musical trends with wild, ephemeral dance crazes were being thought up weekly; the twist, hully gully, the mashed potato—none of them a problem for Phương Tâm.”). I dearly hope the same can someday be said of me.

Fatefully, Tâm entered a singing competition at age 16 and soon became a fixture at various legendary Saigon nightclubs (often performing at multiple venues in a single night). Unsurprisingly, she quickly caught the attention of all of Saigon’s most influential record labels and composers, as she was a “commanding presence” as well as “one of the very first singers to perform and record rock and roll.” Demand for Tâm was such that she recorded “almost 30 known tracks” between 1964 and 1966 that seemed to effortlessly channel every fun twist- or rockabilly-esque trend of the time. Most (or all) of those hits are here and they are invariably a delight, yet the real magic of Magical Nights is the handful of less “bubblegum” pieces that feel like a killer surf band, a Bollywood dance party, a James Dean-style teen exploitation film, and a sensuous cabaret chanteuse all blurred together in a perfect cocktail of soulful, kitschy, and hip-shaking fun. One such gem (“Có Nhớ Đêm Nào (Remember the Night)”) kicks off the album in style, but that is only the first of many bombshells to come.

My other personal favorites are currently the slinky-sounding “Ngày Phép Của Lính (A Soldier’s Day of Leave)” and the rolling lurch of “Anh Đâu Em Đó (Wherever You Are, I Will Be There),” but there is also an extremely generous helping of second-tier highlights destined to keep growing on me, as Tâm was almost always backed by musicians who knew how to whip up a hot groove. This entire album is pure pop bliss.

Samples can be found here.

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“Senegal 70: Sonic Gems & Previously Unreleased Recordings from the 70s” (Analog Africa, 2016)

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There are very few people around making better compilations than Analog Africa’ss Samy Ben Redjeb. For this latest treasure trove of newly unearthed obscurities, Samy teamed up with Teranga Beat’s Adamantios Kafetzis, who tracked down Senegalese sound engineer Moussa Diallo back in 2009 and digitized his large archive of tape reels. Remarkably, only five songs from that big score made it onto the album, so the duo must have made some very hard decisions in narrowing down Senegal 70 to its lean and consistently excellent 13-song song incarnation. 

Happily, one of the songs that made the cut is a previously unreleased piece by the incomparable and woefully underdocumented Amara Touré. Also present is the long-running and internationally successful Orchestra Baobab, but many of the lesser known artists shine just as brightly (if not more so), making this one of Analog Africa’s stronger compilations to date.

As is so often the case with regions warranting a Soundway or Analog Africa compilation, Senegal’s musical explosion was rooted in the good fortune of having a popular port (in this case, Dakar). Unlike those in countries further from the coast, forward-thinking Senegalese musicians were treated to plenty of contemporary American and Cuban sounds in the ’50s and ’60s courtesy of some very hip sailors. 

The first major band to successfully incorporate jazz, soul, and Cuban Son Montuno into the Senegalese aesthetic was Star Band de Dakar, which was formed in 1960. Star Band is not included in this collection, however, as Redjeb and Kafetzis have chosen to focus instead upon all the great bands that formed in their wake. Since I am lamentably not an ethnomusicologist, I cannot comprehensively pick apart where each influence bleeds into another (nor would I particularly want to). In general, however, the formula seems to be a combination of driving Latin percussion; funky soul bass lines; and wonderfully spidery, clean guitar lines.

More important than the individual components, however, is the elegantly laid-back and sultry vibe that so many of these songs share. There is also a recurring trend towards simplicity and hypnotic repetition that has aged quite well and matches my personal sensibility nicely. There is also a very appealing feeling of casual professionalism pervading this collection, as so many songs manage to feel relaxed and loose while effortlessly keeping the grooves tight and the hooks strong. 

It is like the exact opposite of garage rock, but in the best way possible: instead of striving amateurs, Senegal 70 is filled with stone-cold killers just kicking back and riding some excellent grooves. That said, however, Gestu de Dakar’s stand-out “Ndiourel” definitely sounds like it could have been recorded in a garage or basement, though I don’t know how common either are in Dakar (I do not get out there much).

Of course, the one song that stands out the most flies in the face of all that sinuous, understated soulfulness, as King N’Gom and his band ham it up beautifully on the very fun and ridiculous “Viva Marvillas.” Aside from veering dangerously close to novelty song territory, “Viva Marvillas” is unique in that it basically sounds like two very different songs smashed together, as it becomes very serious and very musical for its second half. Definitely an odd choice, but I bet King N’Gom would not have made it onto this compilation if “Marvillas” did not ultimately transform into something considerably more sensual and soulful. 

In all other cases, the songs on Senegal 70 tend to take the more linear and sensible approach of starting good and staying good. Admittedly, they also tend to blur together a bit, but that is because they are all so uniformly excellent for exactly the same reason (a great groove). A few pieces do stand out for other reasons, however. For example, Fangool’s “Mariama” easily boasts the most rich and charismatic vocals on the entire album. Elsewhere, La Souruba De Louga improve upon an already spectacular groove with wild percussion fills and a surprisingly dissonant guitar solo. Orchestre G.M.I.’s “Africa” succeeds similarly, gradually building up to some great trade-off solos from their horn section.

The only arguable downside to Senegal 70 is just that it lacks a single real bombshell that sends me scurrying to long-abandoned music blogs to track down whatever I can by some brilliant new-to-me artist. That has definitely happened in the past with folks like K. Frimpong, Ebo Taylor, and Amara Touré. 

However, my not being instantly blown away by anything here probably has a lot more to do with my current level of immersion in African music than it does with Redjeb’s curatorial skills: major revelations come rather easily and frequently when you are new to a particular milieu. Also, labels like Soundway, Strut, and Analog Africa have likely already unearthed all of the major works to be found and have settled into the much deeper, harder work of digging up all the other great songs that slipped through the cracks.

Which, of course, is exactly what Redjeb achieved here: Senegal 70 is a tight, beautifully assembled collection of tight, beautifully assembled songs (many of which have never been previously heard by Western ears, aside from perhaps the aforementioned hip sailors). Diablos Del Ritmo still maintains its supremacy as my favorite Analog Africa compilation (with Angola Soundtrack a close second), but Senegal 70 probably comes closest to a highly coveted “all killer, no filler” summation than any other collection that Analog Africa has released to date.

Listen here.

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“Afrobeat Airways 2: Return Flight to Ghana 1974-1983” (Analog Africa, 2013)

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This sequel to 2010’s fine Afro-Beat Airways delivers still more Fela-free gems from Ghana’s golden age, which is (of course) is exactly what I wanted and expected. While many of the featured artists (Vis-A-Vis, K. Frimpong, etc.) will already be quite familiar to anyone with even a casual interest in African music reissues, the material is uniformly solid and offers enough obscurities to keep things interesting. Even the most jaded aficionados will enjoy Samy Redjeb’s characteristically colorful and exhaustive liner notes though, as he has unearthed a slew of rare photos and tracked down some interesting interviews with a lot of people who probably never expected to be interviewed by an excited German in 2013.

By now, the “Analog Africa compilation” aesthetic is a very well-established formula, and Redjeb wisely does not mess with it for Afrobeat Airways 2. Occasionally, Samy will surprise me with something completely amazing like last year’s Diablos Del Ritmo, but most releases just offer up a generally likable batch of songs rescued from obscurity mingled with a handful of legitimately great ones that I wind up listening to in fairly heavy rotation for months (or years) afterward. 

Nearly all of those gems this time around predictably come from the usual suspects, like Uppers International’s stuttering, darkly funky “Aja Wondo” and K. Frimpong’s lurching, understated “Abrabo” (a piece sans his Cubanos Fiestas that I have not heard anywhere else). And, of course, the ever-reliable Rob delivers yet another predictably lascivious delight (“Loosen Up Yourself”). Also, while I was previously unfamiliar with Pierre Antoine (whose “Say Min Sy Soh” is probably the album’s highlight), he is backed by the awesome Vis-A-Vis, which explains everything. Actually, Vis-A-Vis are also the uncredited backing band for the K. Frimpong song, so they more or less steal the show on this compilation.

Music aside, what makes Analog Africa compilations so unique and special is their lavish and exhaustive liner notes and Afrobeat Airways 2 boasts some of Redjeb’s best work, as Samy seems to have been in an uncharacteristically poetic and reflective mood. For example, he summarizes the abandonment of horn sections for synthesizers, drum machines, MIDI, and computers thusly: “The harvest of this dispassion is three decades of sonic mediocrity.” 

He also tours the former site of one of the scene’s hottest clubs (since converted to a church) and notes “I was shown around by a kind gentlemen who was trying to convince me that there were an infinite number of paths to accept Jesus as my personal savior. Little did he know that my ‘saviors’ had left the stage many years ago.” On a related note, it was morbidly fascinating to learn that the entire scene was essentially killed by a government-instituted curfew, a decision that more or less forced every relevant musician in Ghana to pack their bags and head elsewhere.

The real coup for this compilation, however, is that Redjeb was able to get access to the archives of Modern Photo, whose somewhat disinterested proprietor let him sort through boxes and boxes of forgotten negatives that had narrowly survived a flood. Many of those photos are included in the booklet and some of them quite wonderful, particularly one of Fela Kuti exiting a plane with his entire female entourage, though I also enjoyed all of the Boogaloo competition shots. 

Even the less spectacular aspects of the liner notes are endearing though—even though guitarist Sammy Cropper’s interview yielded the usual litany of names, dates, and places, it was life-affirming that Redjeb went through the trouble to track down an aging school security guard to tell him that he is regarded as a guitar god and that people are excitedly trying to track down forgotten recordings that he made four decades ago (I am perhaps getting a bit sentimental in my old age).

Overall, this is a much better than average Analog Africa collection: it is not quite essential, but it should disappoint absolutely no one. Aside from the songs mentioned above, there are quite a few other strong moments, particularly Waza-Afriko 76’s “Gbei Kpaka Hife Sika.” Such a high success rate is surprising for an Afrobeat compilation, as the genre has historically been plagued by wild excess and indulgence—to Redjeb’s credit, very little of that surfaces here, as most songs are under five minutes and few are even under three(!). 

Even the few songs that I do not particularly like (Tony Sarfo’s American funk pastiche and De Frank’s repetitive, sing-songy “Waiting For My Baby”) are appealing enough to avoid being dismissed as mere filler. Of course, the music is only part of the picture in this case, which is why Analog Africa compilations are so great: Afrobeat Airways 2 is basically yet another important chapter in a lovingly assembled crash course in African culture and history taught by one singularly enthusiastic crate-digger.

Listen here.

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“Bambara Mystic Soul: The Raw Sound of Burkina Faso 1974-1979” (Analog Africa, 2013)

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Situated right in the middle of West Africa’s musical hotbed (Ghana and Nigeria are close neighbors), the country of Burkina Faso has remained relatively unanthologized thus far, a situation that Analog Africa’s Samy Ben Redjeb decided to remedy after hearing Amadou Balaké’s “Renouveau.” 

Unfortunately, Balaké was not exactly the tip of a great iceberg of undiscovered brilliance—he was very nearly the entire damn iceberg. That said, there are definitely a few other good songs by other artists on Bambara Mystic Soul, but almost half of the album is consumed by Balaké and he is very much the star of the show (deservedly).

As is usually the case with Analog Africa compilations, the story of how this album came into being is at least as fascinating as the actual music. For example, the aforementioned “Renouveau” record was part of a trove Redjeb unearthed in Niger, where it improbably survived for 30 years in an extremely hot and sand-filled environment where the preservation of records is basically the least of people’s concerns. Then came the requisite detective work and tireless scavenging, where he had the good fortune to locate a box containing the entire catalogue of Burkina’s most popular ’70s label (CVD). Of course, he also had the very bad fortune of being mugged at gunpoint in Togo, then of being the hapless mediator between a very angry Balaké and his former record company (who later ended up breaking Redjeb’s contract by selling the same “exclusive” songs to another label).

Whether or not all that effort was worth it is hard to say, as I am a fairly casual, non-blog-scavenging fan of Africa music and see Bambara Mystic Soul as one of Analog Africa’s lesser compilations, albeit one with a handful of fine songs. For more serious fans, however, some of this material may be absolutely revelatory: Balaké is fairly major figure in African music circles and the songs that Redjeb found are both extremely rare and from a period which many consider to be Amadou’s prime (his later work is less raw). 

In fact, I have even seen a blog that was excited to post a single from this period that was ripped from a damaged record—even somewhat mangled work from this period is considered well-worth hearing. Also, after tracking down the whole CVD catalog from the scene’s prime, finding and interviewing all the major players, and providing an absolutely overwhelming amount of information and background in his liner notes, Redjeb has basically dropped the definitive Burkina Faso collection: there is absolutely nothing he left that still needs to be done. While I sure there are a number of great songs that are not included, I am equally sure that it is because they either could not be found or that Redjeb simply could not secure the necessary rights.

As aforementioned, Balaké completely steals the show, though his numerous backing bands deserve a lot of the credit. Though originally a percussionist, it is Balaké’s soulful voice that made him a legend. As great as that voice is, however, I was equally impressed by the guitar-work on most of his songs, particularly the clean, hypnotically repeating riff in “Johnny” (courtesy of l’Orchestre Super Volta). 

All of Amadou’s included songs are invariably quite good though. In general, Balaké’s more sultry, languorous work was with Les 5 Consuls (“Renouveau” and “Baden Djougou”), while his other incarnations are bit more funky and American soul-indebted, but there are exceptions. Curiously, it is rare for any distinctly “African” percussion to appear, which is why this collection initially underwhelmed me a bit. Most of Bambara Mystic Soul sounds like it could have been played by a ’70s American soul or funk band, rhythm-section-wise, though it is admittedly more repetitive and raw. Without the mesmerizing repetition and the awesome guitarists, many of these songs would sound like mere pastiches, albeit good ones.

Of course, there are some noteworthy exceptions, as the non-Balaké selections are far from dire. In particular, the two songs from Mamo Legbama stand out, largely because he is a very charismatic (if a bit hammy) frontman. The hard funk of “Music, Love, and Dance” is probably his finest moment, as I especially enjoyed his amusing use of high-pitched female backing singers. 

His “Zambo Zambo” is also great though, boasting a very vibrant, roiling groove and some very likable turns by his guitarist, horn section, and organist. Mangue Konde’s “Kobendo” is also quite catchy, blending breezy Highlife-style guitars with some very propulsive and spirited percussion. The other songs that caught and held my attention usually did so for the wrong reasons though, as Compaore Issouf’s “Dambakale” sounds a lot like a relentlessly cheery soundtrack to a terrible ’70s porno, while Orchestre CVD’s “Rog Mik Africa” initially sounds like a live Allman Brothers jam.

The remainder of the songs are generally quite good, but mostly lack the uniqueness that I am looking for when listening to music from a faraway place and time, though a few pieces succeed simply because they appropriate American funk/soul and regurgitate it in harder, more frenzied form (Abdoulaye Cissé and Coulibaly Tidiani, for example). 

Ultimately, this is a solid and exhaustively researched compilation, which I suppose is a success, but I have been so spoiled by the recent spate of great African music compilations that I am left a little disappointed whenever there is not at least one song that sends me obsessively searching for the rest of an artist’s oeuvre. More succinctly, I respect rather than love this compilation: Redjeb certainly poured his heart into his work, but it just just did not connect with me as much as some of his others. Other people might feel very differently, however (music is quite subjective, you know), and those lucky people will be rewarded with all the information they could possibly want to embark upon an epic scavenger hunt centered around Amadou Balaké and his unsung contemporaries. 

Listen here.

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“Kenya Special: Selected East African Recordings from the 1970s & ’80s” (Soundway, 2013)

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There are certainly a number of fine labels currently trawling record bins in Jamaica, Africa, South America, and Southeast Asia in search of great lost, unheard, or forgotten music, but Soundway compilations (particularly the African ones) are almost always my favorites. The reason for that is quite simple: Miles Cleret and his collaborators are especially adept at 1.) knowing a great song when they hear it, and 2.) making damn sure that there are a number of such songs on every single collection they release. Unsurprisingly, Kenya Special continues that hot streak, being every bit as essential as their classic Ghana and Nigeria collections.

Unlike some other compilations of great regional African music, the 32 songs compiled for Kenya Special are rooted in a time of relative prosperity and stability. Kenya was far from a dull place politically in the ’60s, owing to their newfound independence from England and a war with ethnic Somalis, but Nairobi was very much a thriving city with a booming tourist industry by the time of these recordings. Tourists, of course, need to be entertained, so many talented West African musicians wound up playing Afro-beat and American soul covers in the city’s finer hotels. 

Predictably, that fateful collision of cultures eventually yielded its own thing, as intrepid musicians soon began finding ways to combine those tourist-friendly sounds with their own distinctively Kenyan styles of Benga and Rumba/Lingala (and they also found that Nairobi was an easy place to quickly record and release records). While this compilation includes a few classic examples of those two “native” styles, most of the focus is upon the less-easily categorized cross-pollination that followed.

As a non-expert in African music, I found the sheer number of intermingling styles (chakacha rhythms, taarab music, etc.), regions, languages, and bands represented on Kenya Special a bit overwhelming, but my dim understanding of what is actually happening did not prevent me from enjoying the music at all. While there is certainly lot of variety on display, the primary recurring stylistic theme that most of these songs share is a tight, killer rhythm section (as well as a refreshing tendency towards relative brevity). 

In general, combining a traditional, percussion-heavy African rhythm with a thick, funky bass line seems to be an especially winning formula (Loi Toki Tok’s “Ware Wa” being a fine example), particularly when that groove is bolstered by instrumental flourishes like great sax playing (Slim Ali & the Famous Hodi Boys) or dueling flute and organ solos (The Mombasa Vikings). Other bands shine in very different ways though, such as The Lulus Band with the clean guitar stabs and train-like snare roll of “Ngwendeire Guita.”

The most memorable pieces, however, take a bit more dramatic detours from the expected. Predictably, my favorite piece on the entire album (Orchestre Baba National’s “Sweet Sweet Mbombo”) opens with an amusingly ridiculous monologue in heavily accented English, but everything else about the song is equally spectacular. Hafusa Abasi & Slim Ali’s “Sina Raha,” on the other hand, stands out both for being one of the only songs to feature a female vocalist and for being noticeably influenced by Arabic music. The Rift Valley Boys also tread rather unique territory with their “Tiga Kurira,” which flogs an insistently moronic groove so thoroughly and so exuberantly that it actually becomes perversely infectious and likable.

As is usual for Soundway, the liner notes are very informative, thorough, and well-written, providing all of the context and biographical information that I could possibly need to delve into these artists more thoroughly on my own. Sadly, no one has a particularly lurid or improbable backstory this time around, but it was still fascinating to learn that artists worldly enough to be appropriating American funk and soul could still write songs discouraging women from drinking alcohol or marrying outside their immediate community. 

I was also surprised to learn that many songs were sung in Swahili rather than local dialects in order to avoid alienating rival tribes. In any case, the music itself (compiled by Miles Cleret, Johan Fredrik Lavik and Rickard Masip) could not be better. The worst I can say is that a lot of the good songs sound similar to one another and that there are not as many truly great songs as there have been on some of Soundway’s other comps (i.e. The World Ends), but those “flaws” are easily balanced out by a near-total lack of weak or even average material.

Listen here.

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“Pop Yeh Yeh: Psychedelic Rock from Singapore and Malaysia-1964-1970” (Sublime Frequencies, 2013)

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Sublime Frequencies’ first new compilation after a long dormant spell is quite an ambitious one, as compiler Carl Hamm spent almost 8 years researching this project. That effort shows, as his liner notes could probably be stretched into a book with minimal effort. As for the music: anyone expecting the titular “psychedelic rock” or even anything particularly outré is likely to be disappointed by 85% of the material, but the Malaysian interpretation of ’60s Western rock and pop is otherwise quite enjoyable and catchy (though not as endearingly wonky as some of the Thai pop that SF has previously unearthed).

As near as I can tell, this is the first ever major Western compilation of Malaysian rock, but Malaysia’s story is quite similar to that of Thailand: Cliff Richard and the Shadows played a gig in Singapore and an entire generation immediately bought electric guitars and started playing every party and talent show they could possibly find. Of course, The Beatles also managed to insinuate their way into the national consciousness, as the short-lived Pop Yeh Yeh genre retroactively got its name from the chorus of “She Loves You.” 

The phenomenon only lasted about five years, beginning when Malaysian musicians started to actually write songs in Malay rather than English and began dissipating around 1970 due to the influences of Bollywood, Indonesian music, and (later) disco. Pop Yeh Yeh was huge while it lasted though, as its major figures were fixtures in the nation’s gossip and culture magazines, a fact that is extremely surreal given that most of them were still maintaining day jobs like normal, non-rocking people.

Most of the songs sound a lot like a surf-damaged early Beatles with female vocals: short, formulaic pop structures, strong melodies, and quite a bit of cool twanging guitar riffage. Most of the exceptions originate later in the ’60s, as quite a few groups added an organ. While that may seem synonymous with ’60s psychedelia, it is mostly just employed to play chord progressions or simple melodic lines (I guess no one could find Iron Butterfly records in Singapore, which is probably for the best: there is absolutely no excess or self-indulgence to be found on this collection at least). The few real nods to psychedelia come from A. Halim, Salim I, Nur Azila, and M. Said, all of whom seem to have invested in fuzz and wah-wah pedals. Of those artists, A. Halim & De’Fictions probably boast the most searing guitar solos, but it is M. Said & Le Ramaja who seem most categorically intent on kicking out the jams.

Most of the musical highlights, however, tend to be fairly straightforward pop with strong melodies and clean, surf-y lead guitar, like Roziah Lateef & The Jayhawkers’ “Aku Kecewa.” There are two particularly strong aberrations though: Siti Zaiton & The Twilites’ “Rindu” features some fairly wild sax playing, while Zaliha Hamid and Orkes Zindegi’s “Bertemasha (Party Time!)” completely steals the show with its exuberantly yodeled chorus (must have been quite a party). In general, however, there is not anything especially brilliant or revelatory here, just a solid batch of likable pop songs.

Hamm helpfully provides translations of the lyrics, which greatly enhanced my enjoyment of some songs. For example, M. Said’s raucous barn-burner is about a “joyful party” and features lines like “It’s a joyful party, a celebration! Greeted gloriously.” and “Wow! Dance!” I was even more impressed by Nur Azila’s foray into psychedelia, as it contains the profoundly un-psychedelic couplet “Take a look at your prospective son-in-law, I’m in love with a responsible man.” 

Carl’s liner notes, while quite scholarly, also contain some fascinating trivia: J. Sham of J. Sham and the Wanderers, for example, is a cat-breeding enthusiast and was once president of the Malaysian Cat Club! I was also amused to learn that Sham’s contribution to the collection is written as a letter rather than a song, as he was learning about Surrealism in art class at the time.

Along with simply being the only real Malay rock compilation available outside of Malaysia, the greatest achievement of Pop Yeh Yeh is definitely Hamm’s exhaustive, picture-heavy liner notes. While they can be somewhat dry or seemingly repetitive at times (many of the artists have very similar stories), they are as definitive and well-researched as anything put out by Soundway, Folkways, or Dust-to-Digital and provide as effective a crash-course in Malaysian rock and youth culture as could possibly be expected (especially coming from a non-Malaysian).

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“Angola Soundtrack: Special Sounds from Luanda 1965-1978” (Analog Africa, 2012)

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Hopelessly smitten by Buda Musique’s long-defunct series of albums devoted to Angola, Analog Africa’s Samy Ben Redjeb decided to try to pick up where his predecessors left off. Characteristically, he quickly discovered that such an endeavor was much more convoluted and challenging than he had ever imagined, but ultimately made it through the gauntlet of denied visas, obligatory bribes, prohibitively expensive hotels, and ill-timed food poisoning to assemble what is possibly his finest compilation to date.

There is something about adversity tends to result in great music, and conditions don’t get much adverse than those in Angola during the time of these recordings. For one thing, the country was the battleground for the Colonial War from 1961 to 1975, as Angolan revolutionaries fought to expel their Portuguese rulers. Then, that finally accomplished, the country immediately plunged into a 27-year long civil war and a whole lot of poverty and social unrest. 

Even today, Angola has the world’s second lowest life expectancy. Of course, the arguable silver lining to all that death and misery is that nobody had the time or patience for frivolity, self-indulgence, over-orchestration, over-production, or pretension in their music: these guys were lucky to just be cutting records and tried like hell to make them count. In fact, hardly anyone even seems to have had access to a horn section: just a guitar, a bass, whatever percussion they could get together, and maybe an occasional organ. It is unfortunate that these bands were so stripped down out out of sheer necessity, but it is an aesthetic that suits my discerning ears quite well.

Much like many of the other exciting and highly localized music explosions that have been anthologized recently, the prime period for music in Angola coincided with a collision of African and Latin influences. It also coincided with a strong desire to create a distinct Angolan sound to assert their cultural independence from Portugal. For the most part, the Latin influence makes itself felt mostly through driving, vibrant percussion and simple, insistent bass lines. 

The African elements, on the other hand, manifest themselves most strongly in the clean, intricate guitar lines. The blending of cultures gets a bit blurrier than just that though, as touches of American surf music and other esoteric surprises occasionally pop-up as well. Also, there is a definite feel of urgency and melancholy in a lot of these songs, which serves to tone down the Latin percussion to a suitably non-manic pace.

The definite stand-out piece on the album is Quim Manuel’s “Eme Lelu,” one of the rare times horns make an appearance. The cool brass parts are just gravy though, as the song’s real charm lies in its mesmerizing, sinuous rhythm. I also loved the tensely repetitive “Mecongo Mi Chiquita,” by Ferraro Do Nascimento. There’s quite a bit of other strong material here too—nothing that quite floored me, but the hit-to-miss ratio is quite a bit better than it has been on the last few Analog Africa comps. 

I think the probable cause is that a lot of these musicians have a solid understanding of understatement and nuance, which is greatly appreciated, as the more hyperactive strains of Latin-African hybrids tend to grate on me. As do most jubilantly happy, major key songs, which is why I was very surprised to find that the man behind the jaunty “Uma Amiga” (David Zé) was murdered in a wave of repression that followed a failed coup (along with several other influential musicians). In fact, most of his music is impossible to find even now because people were so frightened to be caught with it during that dark period. Sometimes, even seemingly innocuous music holds morbid surprises, I guess.

Obviously, the music is the main draw here, but I have definitely fallen completely in love with Analog Africa’s packaging: each new album is like the next chapter in the unfolding autobiography of a passionate and compelling eccentric. There are lots of people out there scavenging the world for great lost music and many of them do an excellent job providing colorful or informative context and liner notes, but only Redjeb makes a point of also explaining exactly why he is excited about each project, recounting the absurd lengths he went to to make it happen, and including as many interviews with the people involved as possible. 

I get the feeling that each new release is the most important thing in the world to Redjeb, not just “the next album.” For Angola Soundtracks, he even postponed going to the hospital while seriously ill just because people kept stopping by to sell him records; I’m sure someday I will probably read about him braving an alligator attack or navigating a minefield or something just to interview some guy that played maracas on a 45 he likes. Samy is truly the music nerd’s music nerd, as it is impossible to remain unmoved by his enthusiasm.

Listen here.

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“Panama! 3- Calypso Panameño, Guajira Jazz & Cumbia Tipica on the Isthmus 1960-75” (Soundway, 2012)

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This is allegedly the swansong for Soundway’s excellent Panama! series—an unexpected choice, given that this rich vein of material doesn’t show the slightest sign of being exhausted (perhaps the compilers just need some time away from the heat and the mosquitoes).  Though the focus has shifted away from funk this time, this third volume remains every bit as exuberant, smoldering, absurd, and fun as its predecessors.

One of the most endearing aspect about the Panama! compilations are Roberto Gyemant’s lively and amusing liner notes, which contain none of the academic recounting of facts common with similar albums.  Instead, they offer colorful mixture of enthusiasm and anecdote that allows listeners to share (in some small part, at least) the thrill of discovery.  For example, a local character named Tommy is responsible for introducing Gyemant to several of the best songs that he heard during his stay in Colón.  

Tommy’s shack is apparently an essential stop for music afficionados, as he has a deep love of vintage soul and Jamaican music, which he constantly blares from two large speakers set up outside. Amusingly, however, Tommy does not have a correspondingly deep love of vinyl, so he rips whatever he wants, digitally removes the crackle, and throws the record in the trash (a personality quirk likely to drive musicologists to tears or paroxysms).  The eerie crooning of the ukulele-based “Masters are Gone” was one such find, sending Roberto on a desperate search to track down the actual record somewhere.  Thankfully, he was successful, as it’s a great song.

Naturally, a number of the best artists featured on the earlier compilations appear again.  Lord Cobra again nearly steals the show with his dark and melancholy strain of calypso (“Colón Colón”), but there are a number of other great calypsos included as well- most notably Black Czar’s ridiculous story-song “Bamboo Dance,” in which our hapless narrator is seduced by an older woman at a dance.  Papi Brandao’s sizzling take on the standard “Bilongo” is another clear highlight, but the whole album is teeming with great moments covering a number of stylistic strains (the big band numbers from the ‘60s are particularly strong).  There are some unexpected and odd surprises thrown in too, such as Little Francisco Greaves’ distinctly un-Latin “Moving-Grooving,” which features some infectiously raucous James Brown-isms.

I deeply regretted my lack of Spanish fluency at several points during the album.  I am certain that I am missing out on a great deal of clever wordplay and saucy double-entendres strewn all over the many calypsos, though many of the artists helpfully bounce effortlessly back between English and Spanish (with some occasional other surprise languages thrown in too). Also, one of the most eccentric story songs on the album (“Combo Pa’ La Tineda”) probably loses a lot in its summarized translation.  Fortunately, passion and charisma go a long way towards transcending language barriers and there is no shortage of either on Panama! 3.  This is a great album.  I hope Roberto and his co-compilers take on another project together soon, as they have a definite genius for finding great lost music and presenting it as a raw and sensuous party.